


Slow Ridin' Woman (You're So Fine)

by Edwardina



Category: Glee
Genre: Barebacking, Dirty Talk, F/M, PWP, Public Sex, Vehicular Sex, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn's on the mend, but still using her wheelchair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Ridin' Woman (You're So Fine)

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime circa 316-317. Written for the "vehicular" square on my Kink Bingo card. And 'cause I love me some Quartie and some Kink Bingo amnesty. Title from "Slow Ride" by Foghat. Thanks to Kate for her starry eyes and taking this fic in her lovin' arms.

A set of gold flats swept smoothly into the corner of Artie's vision, then stopped there, sitting in their footplates, unmoving.

"Quinn Fabray," Artie said, without looking over. "I know you're not back in that chair."

"Come on, Artie," responded Quinn's voice, pitched low not because they were in the library, but because that was the way Quinn spoke, in a near-throaty honeyed drawl. "Just admit it. You like it when I'm in the chair."

Artie shut the heavy book he'd had draped open over his knees and heaved it back into its place on the shelf with a practiced shove.

"No, I don't."

He grasped at his handrims and turned slightly, caster wheels whisking against the grubby carpet intended to keep footsteps quiet, to find Quinn blocking the entire aisle with her chair. Hers was a model only slightly smaller than his, but to Artie's discerning eye, it was clearly less durable in its construction, less customized for her body, and not tricked out to her specifications. In other words, it was a temporary ride.

"What are you doing?" Artie asked flatly. "You can walk."

"I'm still getting used to being back on my feet again," Quinn replied, urging her chair forward till her footrest nudged his. "It's exhausting just trying to make it through lunch. What's the harm in relying on the chair now and then? Besides, I need to conserve all my strength for glee. Our choreography is pretty demanding."

Artie stared for a moment at her bow-toed shoes, then at her face, which by the grace of God hadn't gotten a scratch in her accident and remained as flawlessly pretty as it had always been.

Actually, she was even hotter now. It was something about the hair. Maybe the barrette. It was all conservative and sweet, holding back golden locks from her face, this little white pearly lie that said, _I'm so innocent, I'm such a good girl_ , which was extra hot when you knew the truth about Quinn Fabray: girl was nasty. She was wearing her tiny golden crucifix again, attending God Squad meetings, all cleaned up, but that didn't change the fact that she'd gone though, done, and said some pretty fucked up shit. Artie had no idea why he was the object of her current fixations – other than the fact that Quinn just seemed kind of messed up and lonely – but he wasn't exactly beyond reaping the benefits of spending time with a girl who was only in a chair part-time, super needy, and technically a MILF.

He sighed. The way he saw it, it was up to him to help her get over this wheelchair business.

"You've made astonishing progress with your physical therapy. The fact that you can dance with the rest of the group at all is a miracle. Not that I wasn't revved for any and all possible future wheelchair duets, because we'd totally get the pity vote from the judges at Nationals, and I am not beyond that. But you don't have to be in a chair," Artie repeated. "And you know what? I'm glad for you."

"Be glad if you want," Quinn said. "Be glad, mad, sad. Bad."

"Well, I'm glad. Really. You can walk, Quinn. Maybe you walk kind of slow, but still. When I see you in that chair, it reminds me of when you couldn't walk, and that does make me sad."

Quinn simply hummed, "Mm, I'm sure you don't appreciate me rubbing the fact that I could get up if I wanted to in your face. I know it's _hard_ for you... when I rub things in your face. I mean, there's no way you're actually into the fact that I can pop wheelies and then get up, slide onto your lap, and do _you_..."

Artie craned his head quickly to peer over his shoulder for the librarian, or that weird kid who was always reading ancient copies of _Highlights_ when he wasn't wandering the stacks like he was hoping to meet the Gallant to his Goofus, to make sure no one could hear all the crazy prom queen candidate Quinn Fabray was letting out. The crazy was kinda his property right now, thank you very much.

"Wanna get out of here? Make use of the handicapped stall?" she murmured mercilessly.

"Race you, nasty girl," said Artie simply, arms readily flexing as he gripped his rims. "Uh, but... you have to turn around, first, or we're kinda stuck in the autobiographies."

"Follow me, then," Quinn had the nerve to say, backing herself up with a scoot and executing a clumsy turn.

Artie rolled after her, amused, watching her hair swing and her body work the chair, her "Proud Mary" skills having long since faded from muscle memory and her body different now that she'd actually been in the chair without being able to use her legs to help her manage it whatsoever. She was still a novice. Hopefully, she always would be. He didn't exactly want her to be in the Paralympics someday.

No, she was good just like she was, lacking the stern upper body posture needed to really get a good roll on, but determinedly doing the handicapable equivalent of parting the peons with her trademark strut as she lead them out of the library. A couple of Cheerios defacing last year's _Thunderclap_ eyed them, the two cripples; they weren't interested in Artie, or even the odd combination of a popular blonde cheerleader and the kid with the home haircuts and lights on his wheels. Everyone was always automatically interested in Quinn. But Quinn didn't acknowledge their existence. The hockey player who was coming in held the door open for her without question, just by the pointed weight of her glare. That didn't happen to Artie much. He coasted coolly after her while the jock held the door.

Classes were in, though this was Artie's study hall (and apparently Quinn's now, too, or she was playing hooky), so the halls were empty – perfect for a wheelchair race. They pulled themselves parallel.

"Name your terms," Artie said.

"From here to the girls' room by the gym."

"Hold up. The Skank bathroom?"

"That's right. It's Skank territory. Smart people stay away, unless they want to donate their lunch money to a new weave for Sheila. It's the perfect place for a smoke break. But it's also a little-known secret that it has the best handicapped stall in the school. Its handrail is in impeccable condition and the toilet's never even been used. It's brand-new. Last September we made wine in it."

"That's completely disgusting," said Artie approvingly.

"If I win..."

"That's a big 'if,'" he taunted.

"If I win," said Quinn regally, "I get to do whatever I want, and you have to abide by my wishes. If I want you to sing 'I'm A Little Teapot' and do all the motions with it during glee, you will. If I want you to tell me I'm pretty till the bell rings, you have to. If I want to sit on your lap and wear your glasses, I get to. If I want to, oh, say, trade you chairs, we're finding Sam or Joseph and taking advantage of their Christian goodwill and upper body strength, and I get your fly ride till the end of the day."

Artie waved an utterly dismissive hand, rolling his eyes.

"If you win," Quinn began, then paused for effect, batting her lashes in one heavy, coy dip in Artie's direction as she mouthed each word in a slow whisper, "I let you put it in me... bare."

"Say what?" Blood seemed to pound in a spike up each of his wrists, resounding in his elbows and rendering his arms noodly. 

"You heard me," sang Quinn in her soft, satin-velveteen way, and smiled as she sailed off without warning, pumping at her wheels, her forcefully cheery yellow cardigan's short puffy sleeves deflating with the effort she was hurling into it.

"Cheater!" Artie muttered, something in him kick-starting with a bang and shoving into desperate motion, rubber sliding across the dismal but somewhat freshly-waxed floor.

Quinn stood no chance of beating him. No one did, and it would be a sad day if a recreational wheelchair user actually outstripped him in either speed or technique – even though in some of his nicer, more considerate, some might say "boyfriend material" moments, he'd let Quinn edge him out by a hair and win a little sprint down the choir room hall. But again, excuse him – had he heard that right? Understood it? Bare as in _no condom_? It was time to haul ass.

Artie hardly minded condoms. Seriously, if sex was a thing that was happening to him and whether or not it was an option involved something as thin and practical as a Trojan, bring them on. It was one of the things Brittany, the only other girl he'd actually done the deed with, was actually pretty smart about. She carried them around in a case shaped like Hello Kitty's head and collected different flavors with the same childlike interest and devotion as she collected plastic jewelry out of those quarter machines in restaurant foyers. She really liked the glow-in-the-dark ones (which were really cool, if you liked your junk looking like a motherfucking light saber, which Artie totally did). That was part of the reason it had been such a shock when she'd thought she was knocked up for half a day – the times they'd done it, they'd always used protection. And oh, Lord, had he ever not been prepared to even think of being a father. His mother still helped him get dressed in the morning and his dad drove him everywhere. Sure, he hoped someday he'd have a kid, but after college, after marriage.

But if Quinn was, you know, actually offering... hell, yes.

"You can't win," she laughed, bubbly and infectious.

They turned the corner in a wide arc, and Artie's footrest struck the back of Quinn's chair teasingly, denting her momentum and allowing him to roll around her with ease. With the long hall towards the gymnasium in sight, they each gained speed, sailing past quiet classrooms and Ms. Pillsbury's office with Quinn's breathless laughter echoing gently in the halls.

"I'm 'bout to run you off the road. Best watch yourself," Artie responded.

Expertise kicking in, deep instincts he didn't even think about anymore at all because his chair was just like an extension of his body, Artie waited until the last few seconds to kick into high gear, pushing himself with a burst of reserved strength past Quinn in a shamefully easy glide. He executed a graceful spin in front of the Skanks' bathroom door, watching Quinn's hair blowing back breezily as she rolled to a stop, panting.

"To the victor go the spoils," said Artie broadly.

"Well, this is a total shock," replied Quinn, smug and inviting at the same time, reaching out to give the bathroom door a push and forcibly wedging herself feet-first into the doorway. It reluctantly opened for the chair. Bathroom doors weren't exactly super-accessible at McKinley. Artie didn't even use the bathrooms at school; his body had learned the rhythm of his daily needs years ago. He followed Quinn in, arm stronger than hers and able to shove the door fully out of his way. It chased his chair as it swung closed and settled heavily into the metal jamb behind him.

"I'd lock that if I were you," Quinn advised, rolling past sinks towards the tellingly large stall in the corner of the bathroom. 

Artie reached up and turned the old metal latch on the push-panel of the door, peering somewhat suspiciously into the room.

It was cleaner than the typical boys' room. It smelled different, somehow, too. Don't get it twisted, it still smelled like a bathroom and definitely smelled like someone had used it for a smoke break in the last day or so, but it was definitely more inherently fresh, too, like you could still smell the cleaner used by the janitorial staff under the layer of girly smells, hairspray and fruity body lotions and LipSmackers and all Artie had learned came along with women. All the toilets probably worked, even. The only visible mar was that someone (probably a Skank) had recently used one of the mirrors to either blot their lipstick or give themselves a serious ego-boost and left a big hot pink smear on it. That was so much better than anything you might find smeared on a mirror anywhere there were guys.

"Come on," Quinn said sweetly, pausing by the yellow door of the handicapped stall, "we can both fit in here, easy. I promise."

Artie rolled her way.

"Girl," he said, and nothing else, letting his teasing tone of voice do the talking for him.

She was right, though. The door swung wide and left plenty of room for both their chairs. It was absolutely the ritziest handicapped stall in the school – and besides Quinn, there weren't even any girls in wheelchairs, so it was probable no actually handicapped person actually used it. It was probably built for those big-ass mechanical chairs, with room for the chair plus an aid, or maybe to accommodate chair-bound visitors to the gymnasium for games or whatever.

Artie ushered himself in with a quick swish, then pushed the door shut behind them and deliberately thumbed the lock, looking at Quinn with open curiosity.

She was dressed nice, doing the preppy-meets-kind of Betty Draper thing she'd started doing since applying to Yale, her cardigan more of a cutesy accessory than the sweaters Artie wore on a near-daily basis. 

Her first couple of weeks in the chair, she'd worn jeans, which she hadn't worn since she was carrying Puck's kid Artie's freshman year. She'd looked cute in them, younger somehow than her tendency towards florals made her look – except her hips in dem jeans had become a point of incredible distraction for Artie. Out of nowhere, bam. Sitting as she had in her seat, legs slackened and unmoving, the shape of them had been put on display in a way her flouncy dresses and skirts usually modestly covered. She had strong thighs from years of Cheerios routines and dancing, but in her chair, the shapely muscles had become useless to her and were flattened to the seat the same way Artie's were, but – sexier, obviously. Her hips, though. That was what Artie's eyes were drawn to. Even girls with more junk in the trunk than Quinn had ever had, even while she'd been knocked up and kinda cutely heftier, didn't have hips that had widened to hold and birth a freaking baby. It was suddenly obvious to him that her body had changed.

Again – it was weird, but – she'd never been hotter than she was right now.

He did like her in the chair.

But right then, no wary jeans. She was wearing a white dress with little yellow designs on its skirt, like flowers or butterflies or something, in a testament to the fact that she could shift her legs together, lady-like, because she was in control of them, and she could rise up from her chair and float along on her feet if she wanted. Her fingers were lingering delicately on her metal handrims, sliding down them and up again, wheels moving the slightest centimeter with the casual caressing.

"So, would you like to collect your prize?"

Artie tucked his chin into a thoughtful hand.

"You want another ride on the Artie Express," he said with a sigh. "Should've known you'd be back. Happens to me all the time. Women can't help it. They see my pimped-out ride, handicapped parking tag, attend my lectures on how to get in and out of bed with nothing more than a transfer board and sheer determination, and they can't help themselves. They get themselves in bed with me and don't wanna get out again. 'Cause they're just exhausted. I wear them out."

Quinn arched a perfect brow, one canine tooth grazing lightly against the corner of her lower lip as she bit down against a smile.

That was pretty much how Artie had bagged her in the first place, or how she'd bagged him, whichever. They'd laid on Artie's bed for a long time together, Artie watching Quinn's chest heave with the effort of it all, talked daily routines and just how damn long it took to get gangsta e'ry morning and to get on and off the bus, talked mortifying sponge baths. He could tell she needed a friend, but also, he could suddenly relate to her in a way he'd never been able to relate to any other girl. The hand job had been kind of out of the blue, but Quinn was all over the place – hot and cold, emotional yet detached, needy but distancing herself from everything. Her one constant was that she was controlling, and when she was shocked out of it, apparently she also got totally horny.

Luckily, Artie was not only bossy, but capable of re-framing pretty much any situation like a boss.

"Get out of that piece of junk if you want some of this," he said, crossing his arms.

He surveyed as Quinn obeyed him, clumsily flipping her brakes and shifting her knees slowly. Her toes, bows and all, slipped from her stationary footrest. With the help of the handrail and a white-knuckled grip on her arm rest, she raised herself with a careful deliberation. Artie knew she could do it, but it was still a sight to see her rising, standing straight.

"You better be ready," Quinn breathed, stepping toward him, "because I am."

With a graceful whirl, she turned and eased herself onto Artie's lap, her slim back casually leaning against his chest, legs tucking between his demurely. He could only really feel it from the dick up, but he felt it where it counted – could feel her hand groping to open his belt.

A shock zapped through Artie that he hadn't actually allowed himself to feel until right that very second. Were they actually doing this? Doing _it_? At school? His wood was suddenly springing all the hell up under her hand, and she could definitely feel it, letting out a smug little breathy laugh and fingering over the curve of it with the tip of her middle finger.

"Dammit, woman," Artie groaned shortly, and slammed the breaks on his chair so they wouldn't go rolling.

"Get it out and I'll let you do me," she whispered, close to his face now, smelling like whatever pink gloss was on her lips. Artie scrambled to dig at the fly of his khakis as Quinn continued, reaching up to toy with one tortoise shell button on Artie's cardigan, clearly enjoying herself, "I've never done it like this, but it seems to me like I can just sit on it, get it deep inside me..."

"Fuck, yeah, you can," Artie assured her quickly, panting as he worked his zip down with Quinn touching him, talking to him, toying with him and driving him so insane he was vaguely surprised he even remembered how to get his pants open. 

He'd done a lot of thinking about the logistics of hot wheelchair sex over the years, but with Brittany, she'd always just picked him up out of the chair and carried him around as she pleased. Then he and Quinn had hooked up in his bed, neither of them able to move from the waist down but fully able to use their hands and discover just how well Quinn's plumbing did work.

"Like reverse cowgirl. God, I'm hard. I don't think I've ever gotten so hard so fast," he muttered, busting his dick out the fly of his boxers. The leather of his driving gloves made the grip he had on himself strange, like he could feel the way he was sweating even through the leather and mesh, and even though he was totally used to wearing the gloves on a daily basis, he knew it probably looked weird, his dick in his gloved hand. It didn't look near as good as it did in Quinn's hand, that was for damn sure. "Are you sure you don't want to use protection? I'm honestly down."

"I'm sure," said Quinn, like she was dismissing the idea of seeing a lame movie. "I don't have any with me, and I doubt you're packing a condom in the pocket protector I can feel you hiding under your sweater. Don't worry, I'm on the pill, and unlike Puck, you can trust me. I just have to feel this. You in me, nothing getting in the way, nothing keeping me from feeling you – I have to."

"Fuck," Artie breathed.

Quinn shifted on him, then, knee tipping, and it took Artie a second to see the panties she'd been hiding under that skirt getting wiggled down her calves.

"Thatta girl, panty-dropper," he muttered. "Nothin' in the way. Nothing's gonna stop you from getting this cock in you."

"You wanna feel the inside of me?" Quinn responded, getting a shudder out of him from the very bottom of his gut up. "Nothing in the way? Do me right here without protection so you can feel me all around you, for real? I'm gonna let you do me like the guy who got me pregnant."

See? Nasty.

"Don't just tease," Artie panted. "You know you wanna get on this."

With arms more accustomed to having to bear the weight of her entire body than usual, Quinn gripped at the arm rests of his chair and pushed, one knee sliding until it overlapped Artie's and he could feel the bare skin of her thigh brushing his hard-on, a fucking electric feeling that had him grunting in the space of the stall.

"Get it, girl," he encouraged, and the both of them gasped as she managed to slip down over him, the head of his dick pushing her open around him, wet and slick and steamy-hot, God. She really was ready for him, ready for this – had been wanting it, obviously.

Quinn sank slowly, burying him to the hilt with a carefulness in her posture, his clothes still pressed awkwardly between them. Artie grabbed her hips, throbbing inside her as he thought distantly about how womanly they were – how her body had been used by another guy and by carrying his kid, but how it only made it even hotter to him. But she hadn't done it all. She hadn't just gone for it like this, not with her ass in his lap as casually as some girls sat on their boyfriends' laps in glee, but with her panties down and his dick right up inside her. He could only groan, half-gloved fingers sliding over her skirt as he took it all in, all the crazy unlikeliness of this that made it all possible.

Her hair fell back in a soft wave as she gyrated her hips, huffing with effort, making the chair squeak slightly where the wheels were caught in the breaks, and Artie's head fell back too. He knew he was staring at the ceiling but he couldn't even see it. All the blood in his body was pounding in his dick. Everything was just the pressure of Quinn's lean against his chest, the softness of her cardigan, the roll of her hips as his hands touched them, and the real, wet heat of her all around him as she kept him deep and her muscles slicked him up, worked him. God, it _was_ for real. She was so wet, and he could really feel it. And his pants weren't even down.

"You feel huge like this, Artie," Quinn puffed.

Artie could pretty much feel his ego swelling, and it felt a lot like his dick did, too, right there in Quinn Fabray.

"You like it like that?" he asked, knowing she did, but pushing at her, baiting her. "Getting it all bare up in your pussy in the Skank stall?"

"Oh, God," Quinn moaned back, voice dragging.

"Grinding that dick," Artie pressed.

"Yes," she gasped.

His hands slid to her waist; he could feel her core, muscular and slim, arching to thrust her chest up and her ass back as she rode him shallowly. He wanted to – do more. He always did. Just because his legs didn't work didn't mean he didn't have the instinct to thrust, to fuck and fuck nasty, encoded in the very fiber of his being. With Brittany, he was just lucky if she moaned his name instead of someone else's while they were sexing it up. Oh, trust, the sex was good; that girl was sexy and knew how to work her body, and those first times would always be special, awkward as they were. This should've been even more awkward, Quinn slowly squirming on his lap, making his chair squeak and rock in its place as she gripped its arms, not even facing him, but it wasn't. It was hot. Quinn was on fire. Quinn was made of wrecked-up want and an iron grip on control at the same time, and she came on Artie's dick with a soft, scratchy whimper.

The way she fell limp against his chest and allowed his arms to encircle her made him feel like the man, though.

"I can feel you," he told her, feeling her ribs lift and her chest catch for air as she panted. "It's amazing. All over my dick. These little clenches."

Quinn turned her face towards his; she was flushed, sparkling in some way, alive. "Is it good?"

"Amazing. The hottest thing ever, seriously. I can't believe I'm feeling you come."

"I needed that," she whispered, laughing sheepishly.

"Can I touch you?" he asked.

"Mm." Quinn seemed to drift even as she smiled and gave a pause of consideration. "Okay."

Artie's hands wandered up. His gloves were rough against the cotton bodice of Quinn's dress, and he could feel the layers of its lining and her bra as he squeezed her boobs gently, feeling the sigh she let out between his chest and hands. Perfect handful. He let his left linger there, marveling inside yet again that he was doing this with Quinn Fabray and yet feeling like maybe he was the only one who knew her on this crazy level, and scooted his right down to rustle up her skirt. She laughed softly as he bared her thigh, toned but shaking, and slid his way to the wet slit of where her body was taking his inside it.

"Artie," she whispered tensely.

The folds of her were painfully soft, silken to the touch of Artie's fingertips, and she groaned as he worked them in a circle, wetter and wetter by the second.

"Again," he murmured. "I wanna feel you. I want you to come on my dick and never stop."

"I c – I can't," she tried, tugging restlessly at the side of her skirt. But he could feel her body drawing taut – all her limbs, from the toes up, unlike his body – and her knees spreading themselves open.

"Yes, you can. You're doing it right now. With my dick still stuffed in you."

"Artie, please," she said plaintively, sounding like the sweet, church-going girl she was dressed like. She fumbled at the armrests, but Artie's elbows were blocking her.

"Grab my wheels," he told her, and she did, clutching at them as he worked her into coming a second time, a flood of heat from deep in her sliding down his shaft as she quivered. It made him gasp, an unexpected sock in the gut, "I'm gonna come, I think I'm gonna –"

"Do it in me," Quinn said, teeth clenched, sounding ferocious. "I want you to."

"God, I'm –"

He clutched at her thigh, around her waist, the reflexive jerking of his balls and throb of his dick distant in the way a lot of physical sensations downstairs were, but still amazing, still relieving – he felt more in his abs, in his chest, in his overloaded brain, in the disbelief that there he was, sitting in his chair, as ever, only he was totally blowing it right inside Quinn.

"I can feel it," she told him, making it better and worse at the same time, making him moan sharply. "It's warm, Artie. I can feel you."

"Mercy, please," wheezed Artie.

"It feels good," Quinn whispered. "Like bodies are supposed to."

They sighed together, hazing until Artie realized Quinn was stroking the handrims on his wheels in an absent but comfortable way, hands fondly drifting over Artie's chair – this extension of him.

A surge of mixed feelings shot through Artie as he watched. He was glad Quinn wasn't like him and could get up, walk away and leave the chair behind, but he was sad, too, that eventually she would. Like before, her body would forget the chair. Forget him.

"That was amazing, all the more because I honestly didn't expect it and I've never done it that way before," he said, "so don't take it the wrong way when I say: off me, woman."

"Don't tell me your legs are falling asleep," Quinn said sardonically.

"We have to clean up. I don't exactly have spare pants in my gym locker. And unlike you, at this rate, my underwear isn't gonna survive this. So get on up."

Quinn let out a perturbed, sexy squeak.

"It's not as easy to get up as it is to get down. And my feet can't even reach the floor."

"So kick my foot off the rest like the badass Skank you are," Artie said, and Quinn jerked on his lap, on his dick. She must've done what he said, even though he couldn't directly feel the kick on his leg, because one knee dropped, which he only just kind of observed by the way Quinn's body managed to situate. He could pretty well imagine his loafer hanging limply, his striped purple and green socks covering his pasty ankles, and Quinn's dainty little gold flat having taken over one plate, panties dangling. But she simply slumped again.

"Tired you out, didn't I?" Artie joked.

"Well, physical therapy is exhausting," she said, turning her face into Artie's hair with a smile. "But the benefits are insane."

"Five-minute break, then," said Artie.

"We can stay in the chair a little longer?" Quinn asked.

Artie grinned at her.

"Yeah. We can."


End file.
